


Peaches in Winter

by archea2



Category: Raffles - E. W. Hornung
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Humor, M/M, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-03 09:39:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2846405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/archea2/pseuds/archea2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Buckingham Palace!" I ejaculated in a whisper (yes, reader – given the right circumstances, you’ll find the thing quite feasible). "So that’s your new crib – the Queen’s own house. I knew it. I knew I’d seen a beefeater as we crossed that wall!"</p><p>"On Christmas Eve? Surely that would be a goose-eater, my Bunny."</p><p>Raffles and Bunny being themselves on Christmas Eve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Peaches in Winter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pocketbookangel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocketbookangel/gifts).



Having treated my readers to a few unpleasant, if not gruesome truths in my previous chronicles, it is my duty to confess yet another. Let me, then, admit that to A. J. Raffles, the Christmas spirit is as much of a _terra incognita_ as Mayfair to a cropped-haired orphan waif, or an Ottoman sultan’s harem to a country parson.

 

At school, he had bah-humbuged it with a will, much to his masters’ outrage, while in his later years he always made a point of spending it exactly like any other day in the year. It was in his rooms, therefore, that I looked for him on that holiest evening of all. And it was with some trepidation in my heart that I entered the Albany on that evening which will stay with my heart as long as my heart and I remain one – December 24, 1891.

 

I hadn’t seen Raffles for a while. In fact, I had the sentiment that he had been avoiding me since our aventure with young Rutter, one which can only be summarised for decency’s sake, if not grammar’s, as The One Where Raffles Nearly Turned Homicidal Except He Didn't. It had left our nerves badly frayed, and I did wonder in the course of those days when he never called on me, nor answered my knock, nor even met me in the safe and steamy harbour of our favorite hammam, if he repented of having laid bare too much of himself on that occasion. The thought stung ; the sting was soon promoted to a pang ; the pang welled into fear as I pictured to myself my dear recluse locked in the gloom of his rooms, his head fallen into his hands and his black curls tangled into matted knots while his eyes glazed under the vile cycle of memory and remorse – one which I knew only too well. In the end, the pain became so exquisite that I simply couldn’t bear it any longer and, when the Eve was only boarding its evening hours, hailed a cab to Picadilly.

 

The Albany greeted me as gaily as could be expected of that bachelors’ retreat. Its hall was decked in the greenest of ivy and holly, and it smacked of hot brandy and well-buttered poultry, early as the hour was. The scent insisted on following me all the way to Raffles’ rooms, where I knocked with bated (and slightly dizzy) breath, waiting for the dear old voice to usher me in.

 

In I came with a hesitant step, only to find the saturnine recluse in full evening regalia and spinning on one foot to face me.

 

"My dear chap!" he said, and these three words sufficed to melt all my fears away like a drop of lead. "The very Bunny I was expecting tonight, though not so bereft of peace and good cheer. Why such a long face? Lent is still months away, my boy, or the Gregorian calendar is a terrible fibber."

 

I struggled to costume my fears to the best of my capacity. Costuming, I’m afraid, is Raffles’ forte rather than mine.

 

"A spot of the old melancholy, nothing more. But it made me think of you, Raffles, and that you might want to see Christmas Eve through with a friend."

 

"Indeed," he said with less of his usual levity, and I knew the ruse had taken. For it was in December that my father’s property had been sold, along with the park and garden and the hothouse where he had grown his beloved fruit when we were still "i’the sun". December has always been tainted for me with the shadow of that loss, a shadow which, I realized now, had darkened my own unquietness about Raffles.

 

I must have looked quite the penitent after this spell of introspection, for Raffles’ hand fell on my shoulder with untypical gentleness.

 

"You need a tonic, Bunny," were his next words. "And, by Jove, so do I. There’s nothing so dull as your so-called festive season, just as there’s nothing so enjoyable as the season of mists – for a thief – and mellowness – the best guarantee for a ripe _bourgogne_. Give me autumn any time over winter and all its damnably deep snows and deeply damnable colds. Still, I have the very antidote for your spleen."

 

"We’re not going out tonight?" I asked in dismay, for he was already possessing himself of the night bag where he kept most of his tools.

 

"Why not, my scrupulous rabbit?"

 

"But it’s Christmas!" I expostulated. "You just can’t steal from people on Christmas Eve!"

 

"Who said we were stealing?"

 

His eyes met mine, quietly amused, though I was far from sharing his peace of heart.

 

"Won’t you give those last days the lie, Bunny, and trust me? I promise you that none will suffer the worse for our escapade. At least it won’t be an ice-capade," he added with a flippant edge to his tones, "for the weather has been marvelously mild these weeks."

 

What could I say? Or do, except give in because, while as thieves we shared and shared openly alike, in the less open affairs of the heart it would always come down to one who gave when the other asked.

 

"Very well," I said a little doubtfully. "You and I will ride again tonight."

 

"Spoken like a true friend! Still, Bunny, I do not think you quite trust me."

 

"What more proof do you need, A. J. ?"

 

His hands answered for his mouth, for even as I uttered the words, he was standing behind me and I could feel a soft fabric touch my cheek. His hands were as sure as they had been that first evening when adjusting the black mask over my face; only, it was no longer a mask but a neck scarf which he was tying over my eyes, its silk still warmed by the touch of his own flesh.   

 

"A.  J.!" I said feebly, every sense kindled as his fingertips stroked my temples.

 

"Will you walk with me, Bunny?" His voice in my ear, its lower tones no longer blase but shot with a rapt excitement. "This once, once again, will you follow blindly where I lead?"

 

When would I not, if only to be elected – me, and no one else! – as the partner of his very secret, very sinful dance?

* * *

 

Our course next I will not relate, for like the average sinner in the good book I had eyes and I saw not. I remember walking into shades of varied warmth and cold as we rode in cabs or walked down the streets, his hand and arm always there to guide me. I listened as he took drivers and passers-by into his confidence, calling out his own prank towards me with such zest and jollity that they merely laughed and wished us well. I can’t remember the excuses he gave, but the game went on so long I became persuaded that we had left the capital. In the end, silence enveloped us, and when Raffles deftly took off the scarf I found myself before a thick, yet low enough stone wall flanked by a clump of trees. The largest branch trailed well over the wall, making Raffles’s plans transparent now that he had kindly given me back my sight.

 

I will also spare the reader the short but heated exchange that took place at the foot of the tree. I told him his secrecy was worthy of an opera anarchist and begged him to say what he had in mind. Raffles said: Climb the tree. I threatened to jolly well leave at once if he did not comply. Raffles remained jolly well unmoved. So did the tree when I clambered up on it.

 

The scarf went back on my eyes the moment I set foot on the ground, only allowing me a glimpse of what had to be a vast edifice laden in the lavish and, in my opinion, slightly ridiculous style prized in the late king George's reign. The little I saw left me more doubtful than ever of Raffles’ virtuous disposition and I (for one) made no mystery of it as he guided me tenderly across a stretch of lawn.

 

"Surely," I whispered to him, one ear pricked to the unmistakable clink of his skeleton keys, "this is high game even for us? No one would leave this Grecian wedding-cake unprotected, even if its masters are gone to London for the winter season?"

 

"Its masters hardly ever go," Raffles answered in correspondingly muffled tones. "But its protection is ludicrous indeed. I’m not the first to break in, Bunny. What if I told you that my predecessor was a fourteen-year-old boy who spent several days in the lady of the house’s closet, unspotted, before he tried to take off with her... unmentionables? Ah, here we are. Don’t fidget, Bunny, and I’ll pull you inside in no time."

 

Reader, my stillness was exemplary. Indeed, I couldn't have moved a fingertip if he had commanded it, so petrified was I with shock. For I knew now where we were, and that the house I had vilified was only the side wing of a much greater habitation. Worse, I knew who the "lady of the house" was, since the story of the Boy Jones and the great personage whose bloomers had been pilfered by that wretched urchin had been the talk of Grub Street at the time, and was inevitably told to any beginner in the press office.

 

"Raffles!" I’m afraid my voice was a squeaky testimony to his favorite name for me, as I tore the band from my eyes. "Have you gone out of your mind?"

 

But the clip-clop of feet behind us had us scuttle from a large corridor into the first room open to us. It was quite dark, fortunately, and provided with Nashe’s notorious raspberry-coloured columns. One of those gave us temporary hospitality while the steps faded away and disappeared into one of the 445 rooms which made up our present haunts.

 

"Buckingham Palace!" I ejaculated in a whisper (yes, reader – given the right circumstances, you’ll find the thing quite feasible). "So that’s your new crib – the Queen’s own house. I _knew_ it. I knew I’d seen a beefeater as we crossed that wall!"

 

"On Christmas Eve? Surely that would be a goose-eater, my Bunny."

 

"Oh, A. J., A. J. ! How could you! Now the Queen’s Counsel is bound to go for blasphemy. Or regicide. Dear god, A. J., they’ll behead you and I will never survive it, well, not that I would survive long anyway, but –"

 

"My dear Bunny!" Raffles sounded slightly exasperated. Indeed, my heartfelt despair for his fate didn’t seem to move him at all as he lit the stump of candle in his opera hat, turning it into the dark lantern which had served him so well and so often. "It’s a good thing one of us _is_ keeping his head in the present moment. Now, are you with me or aren’t you?"

 

"Victor…" No, this hit literally too close home. Yet there was still a reserve of pluck in me, and I borrowed from it to whisper, "Raffles or Jack Ketch!"

 

The next minute was spent inspecting the disposition of the room, which appeared to be filled with monstrous shapes made of undiluted dark. Everything just looked outsized to me, especially the ceiling lamps, which seemed positively bloated. What Raffles’ plan was and how he meant to achieve it was even more obscure to me, but before I could ask his hand had found mine again. Soon he was half-tumbling, half-dragging me to the ground. On my hands and knees I followed him as he lifted a ghostly patch of cloth and signed to me to huddle with him under a large table draped in enough white silk to make two or three wedding-gowns for the tallest society belle.

 

His ear, once more, had proved better than mine. For we had hardly taken possession of our new headquarters before the doors were swung open; lights flooded the space and a bustle of activity replaced the previous silence. Even A. J.’s adamantine features paled a little when it became obvious that the vast room, possibly a ballroom or the dining-room adjacent to one, was being prepared for some evening revel.

 

Still, we held our peace. The familiar smell of wax and burning wicks soon told us that candles were being lit up in the room, and the air filled with the scent of fruit, comfits, jams and freshly-baked cakes. It was a strange impression that seeped into my own heart, for Christmas has always brought me an ambivalence of feeling, a hybrid of pain and longing; and here was the Ghost of Christmas Present, surrounding me and the only person on earth who could resurrect its lost thrill in me.

 

Raffles’ face was turned away from me and I couldn’t read his thoughts. But this I can say, that his hand never left mine in the hour of danger. At last the revel-makers, their tasks done, seemed to hover; I could hear chatter among them and the words "Her Highness" repeated several times. Then they left, and when silence once again presided in the room, I felt a soft squeeze to my hand and knew it was time to put an end to this mad venture. Still on my hands and knees, I crawled out from under the table – and froze when my gaze immediately fell on two little pump shoes of the brightest, best-polished leather.

 

White stockings. A  child’s ceremony dress in blue velvet with bouffant sleeves and a belt made of a ribbon trimmed with lace. Gloved hands, one of which was holding up the white tulle under which she had peeped with a child’s pure curiosity for the unusual. What’s more, I suddenly realised, she hadn’t cried out yet. Her young face was scrunched into a thoughtful frown, but she didn’t appear to be in the least afraid.

 

Perhaps flight was still an option! And I was bumbling to my feet when Raffles’ hand gave mine a sharp tug down. I lost my balance, and one of my knees became reacquainted – none too gently – with the floor.

 

"Alice!" Raffles exclaimed meanwhile – not too loud, but with perfect conviction. "Bunny, there she is! Our very own Alice!"

 

My blood froze in my veins. Surely, they would draw and quarter us as an addition to hanging? For if this little girl of seven or eight was the Princess Alice Victoria Augusta Pauline – and she must be,  Queen Victoria having no other grandchild of this age among her line of descent – she had never been addressed so familiarly and would now rouse the guard with her outraged cries.

 

But Raffles didn’t seem to give a toss. When I looked up, I saw that he was bestowing one of his most charming smiles on the young princess. Then, with impeccable composure, he jumped to his feet, blew the candle in his  opera hat, waved it in a flourish and set it firmly upon his head.

 

This seemed to answer the little girl’s doubts. Looking at him, she whispered, "Are you the Mad Hatter?"

 

"Why, don’t you recognise me now?" And Raffles sounded truly chagrined. "Or the Mad Bunny of March?"

 

The little girl cocked her head on one side to examine me.

 

"Why is he angry?" she enquired of Raffles.

 

"He doesn’t like to be reminded of March," he whispered right back, facing away from me. "When his madness began, though it could easily be cured if I was unselfish enough to will it."

 

This silenced me, though I honestly don’t think such was his purpose.

 

"But what are you doing here?" The Princess Alice asked, still puzzled but with the half naive, half starched politeness taught to royal children from the tenderest age. She stood royally at the center of a room which, I now saw, was a dining-room in which several tables had been covered with gifts of all sorts and a medley of appetizing treats, including marzipan fruit, dried fruits rolled in sugar and the very rarest fruit in winter such as strawberries and peaches. The trollish shapes hanging from the ceiling I now saw to be Christmas trees, their branches strung with elaborate glass baubles and tied with red and green ribbons, Prince Albert’s colours before he converted his adopted country to the German Christmas lore.

 

"Why, my dearest Alice…"

 

"I don’t think I’m she," the child said after an hesitation. "I’m a princess, you see."

 

"Your Highness." Raffles, one ear still perked to the rest of the palace, spoke with the dry humour that never failed to enthral his audience, be they solo, eight year old and royalty. "I can give you an easy answer or I can give you a difficult one. Which shall it be?"

 

The Princess raised her little chin in self-conscious pride. "I don’t want the easy one."

 

"Very well. We went to search for Alice and found you, only to find that Alice is not you while you are Alice. Where does this leave you? And us?"

 

"A. J.," I hissed wildly. "Do stop this folderol. Anyone could come in now!"

 

The Princess was looking equally lost. "I think," she said with admirable dignity, "that I will hear the easy answer now."

 

"Nothing easier." Raffles smiled at her with genuine warmth. "Much less boring than Dean Carroll’s ontological paradoxes, really. We’ve come to steal from the Queen."

 

"No, we haven’t!"

 

The Princess, who had brightened up, frowned again. "But that’s not you," she said. "That’s the Knave of Hearts."

 

"Oh, he doubles as that," came under my breath.

 

"But now that we have seen your Royal Highness, of course, the thing becomes impossible." Raffles sighed deeply. "Number seven, for we still haven’t breakfasted. Or lunched, for that."

 

"Oh." The Princess bit her pink underlip. "Perhaps… perhaps if I gave you something, then, that you could take back to Wonderland, it wouldn’t be stealing?"

 

"Most assuredly not, Your Royal Highness. It would be a Christmas wonder. Wouldn’t it, Bunny?"

 

My head bobbed in fervent agreement. Wonder enough, I thought, that nobody had thought of checking the room yet or looking after the royal heir.

 

"Then take what you like," the Princess Alice said with a royal sweep of hand. "They won’t be coming yet," she added kindly in my direction. "They have to fix Grandmama’s corset for her first."

 

I took this as my cue that I could stand up at least, though my legs took a little persuading to fill the office. I was practically standing on one, stork-like, when I heard Raffles tell the girl "Peaches, then, Your Highness. Peaches are what I will take, if it pleases you to fill my hat."

 

She did, and none too soon, for already the door at the other end of the room was trembling, and the voice of the one and only true queen was asking (slightly querulously, I’m afraid) : "Child, is that you in here? Come here and help me walk, Bertie has misplaced my cane _again_."

 

By what miracle we found our way back to London, I couldn’t say. But we did ride again, and made it to the Albany when the bells were hardly chiming the last stroke of eleven.

* * *

 

"Well, Bunny," Raffles said, dabbing a corner of his napkin to his mouth corner. "We must congratulate ourselves on a most fruitful evening, it seems."

 

I couldn’t say anything, for the peach I was now eating was filling both my mouth and my heart. As it melted into my throat, its  sweet lush taste brought my boyhood back; those summers spent under the same sun which had ripened it, watching my father hum merrily while he came and went in his cherished hothouse. No, I couldn’t answer; but look at him I could, and give him my hand until my voice was assured enough.

 

"You won the game again," I told him at last. That he had done so partly for my sake, bent his natural selfishness to grant me this one grain of sweetness, was enough to make me forget every show of neglect, forgive every hurt, past or future.

 

"Only because I had my Bunny with me. The game would have failed miserably, had I been alone."

 

But I shook a stubborn head. "No," I said, taking both of his hands in mine across the table and its generous fare. "On a case as in the field, you win because the Player never beats the Gentleman."

 

Raffles angled his head quickly away, but not before I had caught a glimpse of his brilliant eyes. His hand, however, tightened around mine.

 

"May _never_  be ever true between us," he said at last. "Be a good fellow and pour me a glass of champagne, Bunny, will you? I’d like to propose a toast."

 

"Here," I said, tipping the pale golden fire until it brimmed over his glass. "Are you going to toast the Princess?"

 

"Not yet. Bunny – Bunny, they say that good memories at hard times are like roses in December. I do not know what times will be coming for us, but whatever they are, however unfair or cruel – let us never forget that we had peaches in winter. Promise me, my dearest boy?"

 

He was inclining the glass flute toward me, the glass from which he had drunk, and, my gaze holding his, I touched it with my lips. The toast was sealed; and he can rest certain that it has stayed with me ever since.


End file.
